Off the Chart

by James W. Hall

  “We’re aware of the incident on Dr. Markham’s boat.”

  “Aware of it?” Thorn said. “That’s it?”

  “At this moment there’s no proof Vic Joy was involved in the murders of those unfortunate people.”

  “Bullshit.”

  “What you’ve got to understand, Thorn, is that everything’s a trade-off. Lives lost versus lives saved. We make bargains with the devil every day of the week. In this business we have to work with some despicable people. Naturally we regret the suffering of any innocent civilians. When deaths occur as they did aboard Dr. Markham’s yacht, it is a tragedy, no question, and our hearts go out. But believe me, if Salbone is still alive and we’re able to bring him to justice, to my way of thinking that will more than offset the loss of life you’re referring to.”

  “I can’t believe what I’m hearing.”

  “And furthermore,” Webster said, “the good people in Justice are fully prepared to go forward with their investigations of the murders of those five poor souls as soon as our goals are met. If Vic Joy is the culprit, he’ll be duly prosecuted. We don’t make the kinds of deals that let mass killers walk. We’re simply suspending that part of things for the moment.”

  Thorn said, “How does capturing Salbone get Janey back?”

  “Don’t worry about that,” Webster said. “You don’t need to know every facet of our arrangement.”

  “This is all about you getting a feather in your cap, isn’t it, Webster? You could care less about the people involved, this little kid.”

  “Capturing Salbone would be a feather, yes,” said Webster. “But there’s more to it than that. A lot more.”

  “Such as?”

  Webster paced in front of the screen for a moment, then halted and faced Thorn.

  “You’ve probably never heard of Ching Shih.” Webster gave him a second, then said, “A female pirate in the early nineteenth century. She was brilliant, a master strategist, daring, creative, a cutthroat. For a decade she terrorized the China Sea. In her prime she controlled eighteen hundred ships and about eighty thousand pirates.”

  Zashie stroked his sap like an outfielder keeping his glove warm.

  “We have strong evidence that there’s an individual now attempting to do something very similar: bring together dozens of loosely affiliated groups scattered through the Far East and South America and the Caribbean into a confederation of pirates.

  “Our intelligence suggests this individual has managed to arrange for a sit-down where these men are to devise a master plan, divide up territory. They are apparently in the process of creating an alliance of seafaring criminals that would surpass anything we’ve ever seen. And let’s say those armaments that I mentioned earlier were indeed stolen for their own use; that would mean that there would be only a few navies on earth that would be as well equipped. In short, what this looks like to some of us, Thorn, is that we’re on the verge of a new golden age of piracy.”

  Thorn glanced at the screen, then back at Jimmy Lee Webster. The pompous shrimp had perched his butt on the edge of the long chest of drawers. His black leather shoes dangling inches above the floor. A Napoléon in blue jeans and white button-down. America’s secret admiral. A man who had learned to swagger before most kids could crawl. If the future of the free world depended on the likes of Jimmy Lee Webster, then freedom had a short half-life.

  “The individual who is organizing these groups of pirates may or may not be Daniel Salbone. We don’t know that he’s alive, but this project has all his earmarks. We know Salbone to be highly intelligent and ambitious. He’s a charismatic young man and can be quite persuasive. There aren’t many people who could bring together such disparate bands of outlaws, warring factions in some cases, but Daniel Salbone is one of the few who could manage it. And this theory would certainly explain why Salbone felt he had to resort to killing his own crew. It was done so he might convince his new associates he’d outwitted his pursuers and therefore they might be more willing to join with him in this new enterprise.”

  “Count me out,” Thorn said. “Unless I hear how any of this gets Janey back, the whole goddamn world could fill up with pirates for all I care.”

  Webster grimaced and shook his head like some dismayed math teacher whose student has made the most basic error in addition.

  “But you see, you are going to do it, Thorn. You have no choice.”

  “Look, Jimmy Lee, even if I agreed, Anne Joy has no interest in me. When we parted, it was final. She left no doubt about that.”

  “You’ll simply employ your much-vaunted magnetism.”

  “Why not use one of your agents? Some tall dashing type like Zashie here. He can hit on Anne Joy just as easily as I can. You don’t need me.”

  “Daniel Salbone has already taken a special interest in you, Thorn. He knows your name. He knows you have an intimate history with Anne.”

  “Forget it, Webster. It isn’t happening.”

  “All you have to do is make an effort, Thorn. Make it appear things are heating up between you and Anne. I’m not saying you have to take this woman to bed and give her the mother of all orgasms. You simply have to create the illusion of intimacy. If it works, fine. If we’re wrong about Salbone being alive and Marty’s reason for being back in Key Largo, then we’ve lost nothing from our attempt.”

  “Except the life of a little girl.”

  “I told you, Thorn, she’s safe. She’s under our protection.”

  “So I’m supposed to bring Anne flowers and bonbons, write her poems. That’s going to fool Marty?”

  “All right, look,” Webster said. “For reasons that elude me, Vic Joy wants your parcel of land. Apparently the man believed he needed to do something extreme to motivate you into selling it to him, so he’s holding your friend’s daughter hostage. While the plan might seem idiotic and doomed to failure, when I became aware of it I realized how effectively it might dovetail with our own needs. Because by then I’d discovered what apparently Vic Joy had already realized: that you, Thorn, would require an extra motivational boost.

  “Think about it, my friend. If you had been even a little less hard-headed and determined to ridicule me at every turn, if you’d been even close to a normal patriotic American, then less persuasive measures would have been fine. If you’d shown any willingness to help, then when Vic began to execute his outrageous plan with Sugarman’s daughter we would have stepped in, plucked the girl from Vic’s grasp, and gone ahead with our scheme to use you to lure Salbone out of hiding. But you’re not that person, Thorn. You’re a defiant asshole. And that’s why your friend’s daughter is suffering. As repugnant as the idea is to all of us, you’ve forced us, Thorn, to piggyback our plan onto Vic Joy’s.”

  “What the fuck are you talking about?”

  “Here’s how it’s going to be, Thorn. When I get what I want, then and only then do you get what you want. You go through the motions with Anne Bonny Joy, and in no time little Janey is back in her father’s arms. All is well.”

  Thorn watched Webster trace a fingertip down the neat edge of his beard.

  “And one more thing,” the little man said. “Just so we’re perfectly clear. You’ll find no assistance in securing the girl’s release from any law enforcement body in the United States, not here in the Florida Keys, not in Miami, nowhere. I may not be Secretary of the Navy any longer, but even those who were once my fiercest critics now realize I was right all along. Oceans cover three-quarters of the Earth’s surface, and unless we quash these thugs and do it quick, they’re going to gain control of the biggest piece of real estate there is. And that’s not good for business, any business. We’re not talking about a threat to civilization as we know it, or anything like that. These guys have been a nuisance for a long time and a certain number of them are going to be out there no matter what we do. But there’s a place, a certain tipping point, when things go from shit-you-can-put-up-with to something else entirely. And we’re at that point, Thorn.”

&n
bsp; Thorn looked down at the Velcro bands holding his arms to the chair. All those nylon eyelets and hooks clutching at each other—somebody’s clever invention. Hooks and eyelets, opposites gripping tight.

  “All right, goddamn it,” he said. “But only because of Janey.”

  Webster shot a smirk at Zashie as if he’d won their private bet, gotten Thorn to cave in without even spilling blood. With a sour look, Zashie tucked the blackjack into his back pocket.

  “How’re we going to communicate?” Thorn said. “If I need to talk to you, tell you something. Ask for help.”

  “When you leave this room tonight,” Webster said, “we won’t be in contact anymore until this is concluded.”

  The projector continued to flash images of death onto the screen. A war going on that Thorn had never heard about. Hundreds and hundreds of perfect, sunny days at sea turning ghastly.

  “And how am I supposed to know when that is, when I’m done?”

  Webster’s lips snapped apart in a wan smile.

  “Oh, you’ll know, Thorn. Believe me, we’ll make sure you know.”

  Outside, Thorn found himself in the parking lot of the Holiday Inn, in the center of the quiet downtown of Key Largo. A little dizzy and lost after that worldwide tour of the brutal and unforgiving oceans. Across the lot he saw Sugarman marching out to the highway, and trotted over.

  “You okay, Sugar?”

  “Oh, sure. I’m great, Thorn. Fantastic. Never better.”

  Sugar wouldn’t meet Thorn’s gaze. He stalked out to the bike path that ran along the edge of the highway.

  “What’s going on with you, man? What’d I do?”

  Sugarman halted and swung around to face him. Eyes stewing with rage.

  “What did you do? Nothing. You didn’t do anything. You’re a saint, Thorn. A perfect saint.”

  “What did they tell you? Some kind of bullshit to turn you against me?”

  “Didn’t sound like bullshit to me. Sounded like you, Thorn. Fit you to a T.”

  “What?”

  Behind them a white Cadillac squealed into the Holiday Inn parking lot. Windows dark. It roared down the motel wing and swung into a space near the room where Thorn had been held. Two large men got out. Long hair, dark clothing. The two walked to the motel room and pounded on the door.

  “Something’s happening,” Thorn said. “We should go back.”

  Webster’s door opened and the two men went inside.

  Sugarman shook his head sadly, looking at Thorn.

  “Janey’s kidnapped,” he said. “My daughter’s gone. And you’re playing games, Thorn.”

  Thorn swung back to him.

  “Hey, Sugar, what’d they tell you?”

  “They didn’t have to tell me anything, Thorn. I’ve seen it too many times already. You got a black cloud over your head, Thorn. Sooner or later, anybody hangs around you gets struck down by lightning. It’s been this way forever, Thorn. And I’ve had enough.”

  Sugar’s eyes were avoiding Thorn’s.

  “What’d I do, Sugar?”

  “It’s what you didn’t do, Thorn. You had a chance to help this guy catch the goddamn pirate, all you had to do was tell him something about Anne Joy, take five minutes of your precious time, but no, you gave him the heave-ho.”

  “Yeah, that’s true. But, Sugar, that’s not what started this thing.”

  “At this point I don’t care what your goddamn rationalization is, Thorn. I’ve heard it before. And before that. I’m just sick of this shit. It’s one thing after another with you. It never ever stops. And now it’s Janey. I’m sick of it, Thorn. Sick sick sick.”

  Sugarman had turned and was heading north on the bike path.

  Thorn caught up with him, matched his stride, but Sugar wouldn’t look his way.

  “Listen, man, we can work together on this. We’ll get Janey back. We can do it, I know we can.”

  Sugar was striding fast, not even looking at Thorn.

  “This guy, Webster, he’s got to be a rogue agent. That’s not how these guys operate. Christ, they don’t get involved with kidnapping children. They’re straight arrows, they have rules, oversight. It’s outrageous. Impossible. We’ll call the FBI field office in Miami, talk to that guy you know, Sheffield, whatever the hell his name is.”

  Sugarman kept walking, shooting Thorn a quick look and shaking his head.

  “Yeah, Thorn, whatever you say. A rogue agent. Like all of a sudden you’re an expert on international intrigue. What’d you do, read a spy novel, now you’re an authority? Like the feebs are going to come to attention for you and me? No way, Thorn, we’re out in the cold, man. We’re out in the goddamn Arctic Circle.”

  “Look, we need to stick together on this, Sugar.”

  “Leave me alone, goddamn it. Janey’s gone. I don’t need your help and I don’t want your help. You’d just suck us deeper into this bullshit. This is my daughter. I’ll handle it my own way.”

  “Why’d they take us in separate rooms, Sugar? Show you one thing, me another? Because they want to break us up, isolate me, control me better. Convince you I caused this whole thing.”

  “So long, Thorn,” Sugarman called back. “Good luck.”

  Thorn tagged along for a half-mile, then stopped and watched Sugarman plowing ahead at a furious clip. He stood there as his friend disappeared into the darkness up ahead.

  Fifteen

  Backing off the throttle to a near stall, Vic circled once over his Islamorada property, tipped the Mallard’s wings, and caught a quick glimpse of Anne lying on a chaise lounge next to the pool, one of the servants in her white uniform standing at attention near the pool house.

  “Feature films are the logical next step, Marty. These days, you want to tell a story, you got to do it on the silver screen.”

  Marty looked out of the windscreen and didn’t reply. Still queasy from the trip. After all those hours in the plane, any normal person would be over it by now. But Marty still looked like he was about to dump his breakfast on the instrument panel. Or maybe it was all the blood from Thursday night still floating around in his head. He’d puked then, too, over the side of Markham’s boat. Disappointing Vic, tarnishing the luster of the night’s work.

  “You’ve seen one or two movies, right, Marty?”

  Marty nodded.

  “Well, the minute I’m finished with this land deal, what I’m doing next is, I’m going to put together a Hollywood film. I know people on the Coast, thrown some business their way over the years. Soon as we get a story line together, I’ll make the calls. Mom would love that, a movie all her own. Hell, I could even dedicate the fucker to her, get her name on the screen, first words you see when the lights go down, even before the actors or the title. ‘In loving memory of Antoinette Joy, the greatest mom a boy could have.’ She’d fucking love it. A pirate movie that got it right for once.”

  Vic came down easy and set the Mallard on the flat blue water, a buttery landing, though Marty tightened his harness and tightened it again as they were touching down, never relaxing his grip on the overhead handle till Vic slowed to an idle and headed for the ramp.

  Back on land, he and Marty walking up the easy slope toward the pool, Vic said, “You know what that airplane cost me, Marty?”

  Marty swallowed and said, no, no, he had no idea.

  “A million five for the turboprop. I could’ve gone with the recip engine, but hell, I wanted the extra muscle. That’s something I got from my daddy: love of horsepower.”

  Marty followed him over to the pool, Vic stretching his arms, taking off his yellow baseball cap, tossing it on the patio, then stretching out in the chaise next to Anne. She was wearing khaki shorts and a sleeveless flowered shirt, both of which looked new. A shopping bag from Island Silver and Spice lay on the umbrella table. Anne was reading the Miami Herald, no hello, nothing, didn’t even look up. So Vic made like she wasn’t there, either. Motioning at Jewel, the Jamaican on duty. Pointing at Anne’s glass of OJ and holding up two
fingers. Jewel turned and disappeared into the pool house.

  Marty kept stretching his neck, opening and closing his hands. Sore from clenching so long. All those hours in the air, never relaxed his fists for a second.

  “Okay, here’s how I see our story line,” Vic said. “Right from the get-go, no farting around, little boat sneaking up on a big one. A yacht like Markham’s. Two people or three on the fancy boat. Crank up the suspense, lots of close-ups of the people’s throats and bare flesh. Creepy music. The audience squirming because they know what’s coming, these badass bloody pirates closing in.”

  “Truth is, I don’t watch movies, Vic. I got no experience in this area.”

  Vic watched his dock guys cranking the Mallard up the ramp. Twin radial engines on a high-mounted wing with underwing floats, retractable undercarriage, and an upswept tail unit. He loved that damn airplane. Wished his mom could’ve known he was a pilot now. A pilot among about a hundred other amazing damn things. He’d transcended the hell out of his roots. But somehow it didn’t mean as much, his mom not there to see it happen. Vic had thought maybe Anne Bonny would change that. Give him some strokes, a compliment or two on his rise to power and glory. But no, his sister, his only living flesh and blood, was just sitting there, newspaper spread open in front of her, no appreciation for the lavish layout or the view or anything.

  Jewel brought the two OJs. Put one on Marty’s table, one on Vic’s, asked if there’d be anything else.

  “Not for me,” Vic said. “You, Marty? Eggs, bacon, pancakes. Blow job, maybe.” Smiling up at Jewel, who didn’t smile back.

  The big man shook his head and Jewel slipped back to her post in the shade by the pool house. Anne turned the page, shook the paper out straight, doing a first-class job of ignoring the two of them.

  “Okay, so you’re inexperienced with the film world. That can be a plus, Marty. Give you a fresh perspective. Anyway, we’re just brainstorming, coming up with some ideas. I throw in a few, then you throw in a few from your vast experience.”